The War To Begin All Wars
by Nodalec
Summary: We all know what happened to Yuna and Co., but what truly happened 1000 years ago, when Bevelle and Zanarkand went to war?


Disclaimer: I do not own FFX, the general plotline, nor any of the places mentioned in this chapter. Further disclaimers to come. 

If one looks to the north, one could see the tension in the air... like the moment between the triggering of a bomb and its explosion, the air seems so fragile, so empty -- resigned to, and waiting for the filling destruction. To the northeast, the same feeling, but less acute. To the east and the south: the feeling is much different; the explosion has already happened, and for a moment fulfilled, the air has now long been empty, gorged on its destruction. In the center, there is darkness. Darkness spreading to all things…

…You feel it, don't you?

Don't you…?

Why not, you sightless creature.

--

"What!" Haethoron jolted upright in his bed, sweating. Still in the fugue of his nightmare, it took him a minute to realize that his desktop was softly beeping at him, indicating he had a message. "This early in the morning?" He opened the file, and as he read, his eyes widened.

"What the..." he glanced at his watch. Indecision, for just a moment, and then, "We have to hurry." In haste, he jumped out of the bed, and forced himself to get cleaned up with a speed that made his shower just above a minute long. As he toweled his hair dry with a ferocity that seemed as if he was trying to rip the threads from the edges of the towel. While he did this, he ran to the phone, and called Amarantha. He was done drying his hair, and was combing it by the time she picked up the phone -- not that this was a long time, and besides even if it had been, Haethoron didn't blame her. After all, it was only just six in the morning. But still, he couldn't keep panic out of his voice.

"Amarantha, I'm sorry to call this early, but we've got to be at the Chamber of Parliament in fifteen minutes." He said, rushing through words, "Those arrogant higher ups in Bevelle want to see us for some reason that can't wait, and negotiations are such that I don't think we can protest the time right now... So please, by the time I get there, be ready." This was all said in a rapid, just comprehensible speed, and even during this he was getting ready. He hung up the phone without waiting for her answer, and, three minutes later, ran out the door to her lodgings, given to her, as his had been to him, by the government of Bevelle, to them: the esteemed ambassadors of Zanarkand.

Haethoron wanted to laugh at the very idea that Bevelle would have anything but contempt for Zanarkand, which was the only major "civilized," - that is, mechanized - city to rival Bevelle, and thus subject to all the disdain the first place gives to the second. Haethoron tripped and almost fell: he scolded himself not to think about other things while running as fast as he could - any consequences probably wouldn't be good for his health.

So, he gave his mind entirely to running, trying to run soft enough so as not to scuff his shoes - he wouldn't dream of showing this pampered kinglet any sort of blemish with which to justify the idiot's disdain of his home town or country. The next thing he thought about seriously was Amarantha's door before him. He knocked as calmly as he could, but couldn't hold back his agitation entirely: the knock was probably far too loud for this early in the morning, and far too rapid.

The door slid open, revealing a petite girl brushing her teeth with one hand and brushing her hair with the other. "Anks 'r ake-up 'all" she said, or at least, what Haethoron supposed she said. He figured from the way she was glaring at him that she had not just said "My you look wonderful for waking up so early in the morning". Amarantha disappeared into her bathroom as Haethoron entered her room. Gurgle, gurgle, spit. 

"I prefer at least an hour to get ready, especially for a diplomatic meeting," Amarantha told her fellow diplomat a trifle cooly as she ran back into room, putting her earrings on. "And you've given me five minutes." With no time to do anything with it, Amarantha left her hair down. 

"You and I are going to have a talk with the High Chancellor on why diplomats should not be called before nine!" Truth be told, she had already been showered and dressed by the time Haethoron had called. She had woken at five, and had felt such a feeling of foreboding that she couldn't go back to sleep. The grey clouds that filled the morning sky did not help her usually optimistic mood. 

"Lipstick...lipstick.." she muttered to herself, scanning her room for her elusive make-up.

"Before nine? I somehow think they've managed to convince themselves that it *is* nine... but only for them," Haethoron drawled, despite his agitation, as Amarantha looked for her make-up. Then, in an apologetic tone of voice, "Do you think that, when you find the stuff, you could somehow do it while en media res, on the way to the Chamber?"

"Found it!" Amarantha triumphantly grabbed her make-up on the window-seat. "What? Yeah, I guess, but I'll blame you if I gouge out my eye with my mascara.." She grabbed her purse as she passed Haethoron and left the room. 

"Come on, slowpoke!" She grinned, hiding her worry of what was to come in the council room. "If you tense up any more, you'll be like a walking corpse." Anymore jokes at Haethoron's expense were cut off as she concentrated on putting on make-up without hurting herself.

"Right, like I haven't been some boring old stiff since day one?" Haethoron drawled as he ran after Amarantha. He saw a light peek on just as he turned around, and felt a little guilty: apparently they'd woken someone up. But if they had shouted something down at them about being quiet, he and Amarantha had already run out of earshot. After a few seconds, Haethoron noticed that Amarantha was, through some incredible amount of luck, just missing any bumps or brambles in the road which could cause her to trip.

"Are you practiced at this?" he said, in amazement that actually was slightly real. "I probably would've fallen on my face by now..."

She grinned again and waved her mascara at him dismissively. "That's because you are male."

Haethoron glanced quickly at his watch and found himself getting confused: he'd got the message ten minutes ago to come immediately, at six in the morning, but it was seven o' clock now? Then he remembered: it was still on Northeastern Standard Time. Bevelle was an hour behind Zanarkand. He picked up his speed and looked behind him quickly to make sure Amarantha was still there. He noticed in a random sort of way that parts of Bevelle was getting ready to emerge from their homes, awaiting a day of enjoyment and fun... the city was like Zanarkand, like only about nine other cities in all of the world: it was so mechanized that the entire populace did not have to work unless it wanted to... would they survive, he wondered morbidly, if even one city began to go to war?

"You were right, you can do amazingly well while running," he said to Amarantha, shaking himself out of his mood, "That's rather amazing...anyway, we're almost there. 1135 Boitereaux Ln., Palace District, Level Two...

"Do you have any idea what they want?" he asked, once they had knocked quickly on the doors.

Amarantha had noticed Hae going spacey on her, but he had recovered nicely, with a compliment to boot! "Well, I've been secretly meeting the High Chancellor of Bevelle, and he's in love with me, so we're going to announce our wedding." 

Haethoron blanched at that and, before he realized she was joking, looked at her in disbelief. Then, he swiftly comprehended, and laughed at himself.

"Ah, it's way to early," he said, smiling. He resumed the face of a trained diplomat as he heard footsteps coming up to the door. 

Amarantha smiled. It was good that Haethoron laughed. Sometimes he forgot to laugh, and he got too serious. Too often that led him to thoughts that were too depressing to dwell upon. She too put on her 'serious diplomatic face' as well, though it was more difficult for her, since she had perpetual smile on all the time.

The door opened. A doorman walked through it and scanned the two diplomats. Then he nodded. He had seen them previously, both yesterday, last week, and on a few other diplomatic trips. "The High Chancellor will see you now," he said in his slightly nasal voice. Amarantha shuddered. Having a voice like that would drive her crazy.

Haethoron walked in and decided that if they walked side by side it would make a better, more unified impression on the High Chancellor. They walked past guards that were already standing in the halls of the Highbridge... and then he remembered that they were cyborgs... Bevelle was even more mechanized than Zanarkand, he remembered. Hence why they were number one, and his own city number two. 

He went over quickly what he remembered of the High Chancellor. A tall, middling aged man, the de facto ruler of Bevelle, but technically only the governor of the city of Bevelle and the surrounding countryside. Liked to show off his power by pushing other people around with it. And currently winning a war against the enormous but relatively weak nation of Lessiartham, capital Remiem... and pushing around the huge Maritime and Land Trade Organization of Southern Spira like it was some ambassador from the nearest continent over... and now playing with the idea of war with Zanarkand... he shuddered. Just how many cyborg factories did the tyrant *have* in Macalania? Two guards opened the archaic looking doors, and the High Chancellor perched on his chair behind an ornate desk, in a room designed to be calming and beautiful to him but intimidating to anyone entering it. 

"Ah, welcome and have a seat," said the nasal man... somehow Haethoron found himself wondering if the main qualification for a position in the Bevécois government was an annoying voice. "I am glad you were able to meet with me today."

Amarantha put all her energy into keeping her eyes straight forward and not gawking at anything. While a more mechanized place than Zanarkand, they still had incredible fineries. The walls were draped with fine tapestries. The one she liked the most was black, but for an intricate design in vivid purple woven into it. It was a design seen often, especially in the temple of Bevelle. The High Chancellor was a tall guy, whose hair had not yet turned grey. He wore it to his shoulders, probably to make up for the receding hairline he showed. His robes were the finery that one wears to impress people. She doubted it was hand made, as nothing was in Bevelle, but it was probably one of a kind. Sitting down at the proffered seat, she smiled at the High Chancellor, ignoring the nasality of his voice. "It is our pleasure to meet you," she replied. The man had never been to a diplomatic meeting before, except with the governor of Zanarkand himself.

"Ah, but the pleasure is all mine," the pampered bureaucrat drawled. He walked from his position behind the desk and walked to the tall, roof-height windows overlooking the city. Then, hands behind his back, the awakening grandeur of Bevelle (no doubt on purpose) behind him, he spoke again. "It is my pleasure to inform you that both of our cities have experienced a great victory among the trials we face as civilized nations."

He took a letter from out of his robes and walked towards them, deliberately handing out the letter such that whomever reached for it would have to stretch out a bit to get it... to show who was in power, Haethoron concluded. 

Amarantha's gaze flickered to Hae and seeing that he wasn't reaching for the letter, reached for it herself. She stretched. Just a bit. Not enough to get the letter, but it sure looked like she was stretching. "I'm sorry, High Chancellor," Amarantha said, "but my arms are so short..." 

Very clever, Amarantha Haethoron thought. The High Chancellor let himself look annoyed for a half second, then, with a grand flourish, made nothing of it.

"It is quite all right, Ambassador Amarantha," he said generously, "I shall tell you both the good fortune of your city as well as mine." With that, he opened the letter in decisive, thought-out motions. Then, in precise diction, he read the letter, as he let it sink in that he could without the password - the paper being, of course, made of polarized particles which could be controlled by an invisibly small microprocessor, and thus magnetized to show black, colored, or white spaces.

"'To our Ambassadors in Bevelle,'" he began, "'We have secured a good conduct flag of neutrality from Remiem, which says that they will stand by it whether or not they loose their war.'"--the Chancellor's eyes glinted, but Haethoron thought he imagined it. The guy--what was his name? Oh yes, Javuillame--had been rumored to have celebrated the victory of Bevelle over Ceylut in their trade war by getting ocular implants, not advisable at his age. So, the guy was odd....

Javuillame continued: "As such, our permission to you now is in excess of Level Nine. However, it cannot be stressed enough to not exceed Level Twelve or the Level Eleven Red protocols upon your powers as ambassadors.

"Is this not wonderful news?" Javuillame said to them, his voice like velvet over steel. Haethoron decided to let Amarantha answer again, feeling he would need all his concentration to outwit Javuillame's trump card, whatever it was. He nudged Amarantha in the most unnoticeable way to tell her such.

Amarantha's eyes flicked with annoyance. What in Spira's name was a nudge suppose to mean? It could mean anything from 'it's your turn to talk' to 'stall for time' to 'he's lying'. Tossing her head to move the hair that nearly blocked her vision to a more convenient place, she thought quickly. "It is indeed news, High Chancellor," she replied, keeping her voice calm, though her hands, now both in her lap, tightened around each other. What else was she suppose to think? The letter said that Remiem wouldn't be our allies in a war, but it wouldn't be Bevelle's either. Great. That put us with no allies, and Bevelle ahead by default because of their slightly superior technology. The levels told us not to declare war. 

"Well, I am glad you think as such, Ambassador," Javuillame said. His eyes really did glint that time. Rather creepy, ocular implants were... "Now, let me tell you the news of good fortune for Bevelle." He was at his grandiose place with Bevelle at his back behind windows again, looking very dramatic, Haethoron thought with a mental grimace. Well, at least Amarantha had deciphered what he'd meant. He'd forgotten that she'd not been with him as an ambassador for a long time at all, and thus didn't know all of his quirks. The Bevécois High Chancellor spoke.

"Bevelle has now been victorious in all ways! Our influence, but not our crown, is in all the world," he began grandiosely... more like grandiloquently. "You are fully aware, as ambassadors should be, of the war of Bevelle with Remiem, as well as our conflict with the trade federation to the south along peninsular Southern Spira." A grand pause.

"I have summoned you here today for a very good reason, dear ambassadors, and it is not to bandy words with you as equal," he said, his voice becoming dangerous. "Bevelle has secured Remiem and confiscated its lands," he said, "True to their word, we were only able to capture one machine factory before the Remiems destructed them."

He walked back to his desk, and put his hands on it while standing in front of his chair, between it and his desk. He was supposed to look threatening, Haethoron guessed.

"We have also convinced the trade federation to mind its own business and stay out of politics," he said, his eyes triumphant. Haethoron paled: how had they been able to keep this a secret from the entire city? From them? This meant that... but the Chancellor cut off his thoughts with similar words. 

"As such, we are now able to concentrate entirely on whatever problems present themselves to our attention," he said. "And as of now, the only problem which keeps the city and empire of Bevelle from complete peace and prosperity is the stubborn grimacing of Zanarkand itself." He ended there. Haethoron hoped that Amarantha knew exactly what the Chancellor meant, because he not only meant war, but the complete destruction of Zanarkand.

* * *

A/N: Amarantha, Haethoron, and Javuillame (fr. pron., so "hah-voo-yome") are all creations of Kryillion and Nodalec. There will be more characters from FFX in later chapters, but as the list we know from Spira 1000yrs ago is painfully short, we have to improvise. Reviews are always appreciated, so is constructive criticism. We shall use flames to warm us on our trip to Boston. 


End file.
